


first and only love

by flamingknickers



Category: Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Established Relationship, F/M, Fluff, Implied Sexual Content, Kissing, Marriage Proposal, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-31
Updated: 2016-10-31
Packaged: 2018-08-28 03:41:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,891
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8430439
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flamingknickers/pseuds/flamingknickers
Summary: A very brief, very fluffy night shared between Alistair and my female Tabris, during a ball at the Orlesian Palace.





	

There are only two kinds of visitors to the Winter Palace: those who find it astonishingly beautiful, endlessly captivating, and whom indulge themselves in every wonder it can possibly offer…  _ and sane people _ . The ones who see through the masks, read between the lines, and can never seem to escape the jewel-embellished snake’s den quite fast enough. Of the two groups, Alistair was a proud member of the latter.

He sighed for must have been the fiftieth time, arms crossed as he leaned against the wall of the ballroom. There were plenty of people who’d tried for his attention earlier in the evening, but once his dismissals changed from ambiguous and polite to forceful and rude, most had sauntered off, no doubt to bother some other poor sod. He was only here at all because it meant there’d be time to see Layla alone, which was a rare and welcome thing with their hectic, overloaded lives. When the Empress had extended her invitation to Layla, Alistair was the obvious choice for an escort… Although, for most the night, he’d spent more time  _ escorting _ the wall than his lover of the past eight years. ‘Andraste’s breath, eight years… When did I get so old?’ he wondered warily. 

From his perch against the wall, he could see Layla on the dancefloor, waltzing with some diplomat he didn’t recognize. She was radiant. Long red hair that she’d refused to cut since before he’d even known her, which stretched down to the small of her back in perfect crimson curls. There was a gold chain on either ear, hanging between three piercings, drawing attention to her elven heritage in a subtle yet deliberate way. She was wearing a dress made of some kind of metallic golden silk, the neckline plunging deeper than any he’d seen her in before, the waist clinging to her hips and falling in a graceful A-line. Shianni had helped her shop for that dress back in Denerim, Layla knowing from experience that coming to Orlais unprepared left the door open for the Empress Celene to select a dress of her own otherworldly taste. And denying the Empress’s selections wasn’t exactly an option when you’re a guest in her home, no matter how many outrageously-colored feathers it was trimmed with.

The song changed abruptly, finishing the dance. Layla departed from her dance partner with a small bow before ascending the stairwell, away from the dancing and toward Alistair. She wore a sullen expression on her face, a sign that the night was beginning to wear on her. It would be difficult for even the most experienced Ferelden courtier to survive the Orlesian Palace, especially at a ball this grandeur, where masked attendees on all sides regarded your every move like a hawk eyeing a rabbit, awaiting the perfect opportunity to strike at its prey.

Layla’s expression warmed when her eyes lifted to meet his, soft green seas meeting clear blue skies. “You look like you’re having a  _ ball _ .” Alistair mused, and Layla snorted a laugh, shaking her head.

“You’re terrible.” she declared, her smile widening still when he took her hand, brushing his lips over her knuckles.

“And you’re beautiful.” he replied, “As always.” He’d seen her at every hour of the day, in every state of dress. She was always beautiful, to him.

“C’mere, Al.” she murmured, stepping closer and tip-toeing into a kiss, her hands lifting to either side of his stubbled cheeks. Someone tittered a laugh from a half dozen feet away, whispering loudly something about  _ impropriety _ , but the pair of lovers paid the rubbernecker no mind. This couple had better things to do than worry about what gossip was being spread about them; they’d had more than their share of rumors and libel during the Blight, nothing so insubstantial could phase them now.

With this one, albeit lengthy kiss, it was abundantly clear how much had changed in the years since Ostagar. Once, he’d have turned cherry red with anger at the nickname  _ Al _ . And she’d have egged on his anger. Once, she’d have been uncomfortable about always looking up at him, always having to stand above her full height to kiss him. And he’d have teased her relentlessly for it. But now, years of repetition had turned these traits into the little things they missed when they were apart. A month away from Layla, and Alistair would gladly hand off every crown in his purse to hear her call him Al.

He slid an arm around her waist, pulling her flush against him. He paused a moment, savoring the feel of her fingers weaving themselves into his hair, breathing life into one another, before they reluctantly parted. Neither missed the dark looks of longing and lust now swirling in the other’s eyes, nor how each of their hands lingered on her waist and his shoulders, respectively. “Let’s go...” Layla said, quietly pleading. She knew they shouldn’t. But if he said yes, she would anyway.

Maker forgive him, but he cared more for time alone with her than masked Orlesian ballrooms. Alistair kissed her again, never missing a opportunity to do so, before he said, “Lead the way.”

She looked surprised, but that surprise melted into gratitude mixed with anticipation. Layla held his hand tightly in hers as she lead him out of the ballroom, away from the chattering crowds of the venom-tongued nobility and two-faced courtiers. Once they’d navigated the labyrinth of grand, empty hallways that filled the Winter Palace, Alistair firmly closed the door behind them. The foyer was dark, save for the silvery glow of the moon pouring in from a large window, coating every surface in dim azure light. They were on each other before even a breath of time could be wasted.

Alistair’s back slammed against the door, grunting into Layla’s mouth, whom was already stealing ravenous kisses as her nimble fingers loosened the laces of his tunic with calculated precision. He chuckled against her lips, “What’s the ru-” he tried to say, but she took his open mouth as an opportunity to deepen the kiss, cutting off his words with her tongue. She traced his teeth with it, then drew his bottom lip between her own. Alistair Theirin was a doomed man.

It took three deft motions, and her dress was a pool of liquid gold under their feet. His tunic came over his head, discarded along with his pants, and all of the ridiculously frilly belts and accessories that the Orlesians loved to adorn him with when he escorted Lady Tabris through their court. They stood naked together in the foyer, surrounded by cool, white tile floors, gaudy wallpaper, and garish moldings, underneath Andraste’s muraled gaze on the painted ceiling.

The air was cold against his skin, but Maker, was the sight of her naked worth every goosebump, every raised hair, every shiver. She was exquisite. Creamy skin over hard, lean muscle. A roadmap of scars across every limb; ghosts of injuries he’d nursed her back from, memories of all the  _ close calls _ and  _ almosts _ he never wished to relive. Thin, with subtle curves. Small breasts, round and perfect. Small, round ass that he had to resist leaning around her to grab and pull her closer by. Instead, he traced the thin, angular features of her face, with the soft traces of freckles across her brow and jaw. The golden chains at her ears glinted in the dim moonlight, and he dragged his hand to the right of her face to faintly graze her ear with his index finger, his touches sending visible shivers across her body.

He’d never tire of her, his first and only love.

Alistair could see that she was fighting a losing battle between wanting to savor the moment, and impatience. “I love you.” he said, and Layla smiled, kissing him softly. His hands followed the curve of her back, grabbing her ass as he kissed her, then traced his mouth over her jaw, alternating between pecks, and warm, wet kisses across her goosebumping skin.

He teased the soft curve of her neck, nibbling, kissing, savoring everything about her, about this moment. “Marry me.” Layla breathed against his ear, her voice low, saturated with yearning. Alistair stilled. She kissed his cheek, mouth warm against his skin, then leaned back to look at him. “I really mean it, Al.” she added, quiet amusement at his reaction clear in her voice, despite the haze of arousal rasping her voice.

The day they’d taken the grey, their lives and loyalty were pledged to the Wardens. Married men could join the Wardens, but unmarried Wardens would never know the comforts of a marriage bed. It wasn’t just uncommon, it was unheard of!

The words  _ we can’t _ were planted in back of his mind, but he simply couldn’t say them aloud. Married? To Layla? Maker,  _ yes _ . But the Wardens would never allow it, no matter who they were. No matter what they’d done for the Order, or what they’d sacrificed to do it. Maybe if he had been crowned King instead of his allowing his widowed sister-in-law to rule unaccompanied, things would be different, but… But he loved Layla  _ so much _ .

Layla’s laughter, light and musical, distracted him from his thoughts. “You’re so easy to read, Alistair. Desire squaring off with your faultless loyalty to the Wardens.” Layla rolled her eyes at him, a coy yet knowing smirk on her lips as she looked him over, admiring him for his dashing looks as well as his shining moral character. “Well,  _ my _ loyalty is with you. It has been since the day you gave me the rose in Lothering.” The one he knew she still kept in a small box at her bedside, back in Ferelden.

Once, more than eight years ago, Layla was nineteen years old, arrogant and hot-headed. Fierce, fiery, and unforgiving. Maker have mercy on the countless foes she crushed to powder beneath her infamous warhammer, both man and monster. For that full first year, not a day passed that she didn’t have fresh blood on her face, or shards of broken bones and armor in her hair. But she’d grown up. While no less fearsome an opponent in battle, her witty one-liners had transformed to charming observations, and her cocky nature had grown wise from experience.

“The Order won’t be happy about it.” Alistair said, but his trademark grin gave away his answer: an unequivocal  _ fuck yes _ .

“They’ll live.” Layla quipped, her laughter giving away her joy, her arms gingerly encircling his neck. “I mean, what’ll they do? Kick us out? Good riddance! We can retire to Antiva, spend our days drunk and naked.” she snorted, knowing full well the absurdity of the statement. Both of them also knew that it was a life they’d gladly fight for, were that window to someday open to them.

“Speaking of naked…” Alistair mumbled, leaning down. Before he’d even come half way, she’d stood on her toes to meet his mouth with hers. The kiss was slow, dreamy. He bent his knees and swept her up into his arms, carrying her the way all bride’s are carried when they first cross thresholds as wife instead of lover, to the bedroom. He left the piled clothes by the door, where they’d stay all night long if he had anything to say about it.

**Author's Note:**

> This fic featured Layla Tabris, my first and favorite playthrough back from when I played Dragon Age: Origins all but religiously. I have so many notes from fics I never wrote about her, but she was great, and I love her, and it's kind of sad that this is the only fic that made it out of all those notes? Ah, well. I hope y'all enjoyed reading!


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